The Fisher King is Going Bald

Hair is meant to grow long and unruly Who am I to interfere with nature’s treaty with time? A king’s crown a tangled mess, so fashion forward of I to sport the look of a fishing net Yet I still prefer function, you see I have salmon-like thoughts, those zombified fiends stubbornly swim upstream Keep coasting, keep coasting Solutions are rarely abundant However I have heard that water makes an excellent solvent. I may stay stationary, waiting as my wounded body aches, I worry not, for my head will go wherever my healer takes Perhaps then, he will raise my head tall And my follicles will no longer fall.